


Reunions

by Darkfrog24 (Ithil), Ithil



Category: Coco (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2019-08-20 22:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16564283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithil/pseuds/Darkfrog24, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithil/pseuds/Ithil
Summary: Héctor spent ninety-six years in the afterlife waiting to see Coco again.  At first, there were a lot of people who remembered him.  And you don't stop writing music just because you're a little thing like dead.





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn't such a bad afterlife at first.

With the first one, he didn't feel a thing. How could he?  
.  
.  
.  
"He's calmed down," the clerk murmured to someone outside the door. "You can come in." 

Héctor picked his head up off the desk in the office of new arrivals, turning around as another skeleton walked in. 

"Héctor, is that you?" 

He looked the woman up and down. The sunburst flowers on her cheeks glared back, but something about her narrow chin and her forehead... 

She wrung her hands in front of her dress. He looked at his own fingers and back at hers. "Héctor, I don't know if you—" 

"Mamá?" 

She nodded, covering her mouth with one hand. 

"But you died when I was baby." 

"I've wanted to see you ever since." 

He stood up and took her hands. "I always wondered what you were like." 

"We can finally get to know each other." She folded her arms around him in a hug that should have felt like bones but didn't. Héctor pressed his face against her shoulder and took in a scent that was almost memory. 

She pulled back, knuckling a tear from her eye. "I'm just glad I got to see you at all." 

"What do you mean, Mamá?" 

The clerk cleared his throat. "Mr. Rivera, your mother's hometown was hit hard by the influenza a few years ago, and like yourself she died young. When that happens—" 

"It's all right," Héctor's mother said to the clerk. "I'll tell him." 

Héctor told his mother about his life, about Coco. She told him old family jokes. It was two years before that last old schoolmate forgot the funny story about a girl who'd brought a frog to class. Héctor came to visit his mother's place one day, and the neighbors said she was gone. .  
.  
.  
.  
_Tell the one about our family,_

_It made me laugh so loud,_

_The one about the cactus tree,_

_The day I made you proud._

_Your spirit like a memory,_

_A shining golden cloud._

-"Chistes," by Héctor Rivera


	2. Arithmetic

The path to the land of the dead wasn't the same for everyone. There was a reason most people only crossed over when the living built them a bridge. Héctor didn't like to think about what had happened right after he'd woke up dead. It was easier for other people. Some, the ones who were truly ready, could simply follow a guide to the office of new arrivals and knock on the door.

The alebrije might stay with them and wait. Or it might go and tell an old friend that someone was in need of welcome.

.  
.  
.  
"Sister Maria Celeste!" said Héctor, raising his arms in a welcome that dumped the pink puffball alebrije off his shoulder. "Welcome to the afterlife."

The old nun turned around in her chair in the office of new arrivals and held up one thick-boned hand and the alebrije flapped up from floor to desktop on batty wings. "Don't tell me. I remember every child who ever sat in my classroom." She pushed her glasses up over where her nose had been. "Why you're that boy who used to sing the multiplication tables! Hernán? Héctor! I used your rhymes with the children for years."

"I know, Sister Celeste, and it did me such good," he threw himself down in the chair next to her, earning a flumph from the alebrije, which flicked its long tongue at him in annoyance. "I may be a sorry sight when you were expecting Saint Peter, but I hope you'll let me show you around. The other sisters from Santa Cecilia have a place near the plaza and I'd be happy to walk you there by the scenic route."

Celeste smiled and took Héctor's proffered arm. The alebrije reared back on its tail and jumped to Sister's shoulder, where it turned around three times and settled its head down on one wing, shooting Héctor a skeptical glance.

As they headed toward the square, she said quietly, "You were always a good boy, Héctor, but you were never this good unless you wanted something. Now tell Sister Maria Celeste what it is before I see if these new hands of mine can hold a ruler."

"Ah!" Héctor cringed away. "Well..." he took his hat on his hands, fingers shuffling sideways on the brim. "I _was_ wondering, since you were the last person to die in Santa Cecilia..."  
She narrowed her eyes at him.

 

"If you knew why ...why my wife Imelda never puts my picture on the ofrenda on Dia de Muertos. I really want to visit her and Coco, but if no one puts you on an ofrenda, you can't go."

"Oh!" Sister Celeste blinked behind her glasses. "No one back home knows you're dead."

His hat fluttered to the cobblestones. "What?"

"It's only been a few years, Héctor. Why would we think you were dead?"

"No no no," Héctor shook his head, ducking down to grab his hat. "I wrote home. I sent money—"

Sister Celeste raised an eyebrow.

"—sometimes!" defended Héctor. "What did Imelda think when she stopped getting my letters?"

Sister stopped walking and looked him straight in the eye. "You know what she thought. It isn't as if you were the first man to do it."

Héctor shook his head again. "What about Ernesto? He didn't go see Imelda? He didn't tell her I was on my way home?"

"Ernesto de la Cruz?" Sister Celeste snapped her fingers. "Ah yes, the musician!" she said. "He hasn't been home in years. If he wrote to Imelda, I never heard about it."

Héctor's arms fell to his sides.

"She took up shoemaking of all things," Sister Celeste was saying, looking at her feet. "Doing quite well, actually. I think these might be hers. Sister Maria Eugenia gave them to me. Preferred to be an hermanita descalza, that one."

"She ...thinks I just forgot about them? She thinks I’m that kind of man?"

"You left, Héctor, so you are that kind of man," she reminded him. "You were married with a child. You had no business taking off. You wanted to be a free spirit, and I that appears to be exactly what you became." Sister sighed, putting her hands on his shoulders. "I'm sure once some more time has passed, Imelda will realize that _something_ must have happened to you. The truth will always out sooner or later."

Héctor nodded. "You're right, Sister."

"Now," she said, pulling her bone face into a smile, "I believe you said something about a scenic route?"

He pointed. "There's a garden over this way. Laelia, rhododendron, and a few I never saw until I got here."

She smiled, "I always did like flowers."

He nodded. "I remember."

.  
.  
_So three times five's not seven, and nine sixes aren't eleven,_  
_I tell you I would be in heaven, if you'd say you know me better._  
_I've got ten times fifty sorrows, and every minute borrows,_  
_And I'd give up twelve tomorrows, just to write you one more letter,_  
_But if two times ten is twenty, and this answer's all you sent me,_  
_I'll be happy plenty, when you put two and two together.  
_ _I'll be happy plenty, when we're two and two together._

-"Arithmetic," by Héctor Rivera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the draft of this chapter and then saw that the extended content names Hector as a tour guide of the city of the dead and confirms that he did send money home. Still, there's a temptation to sanitize him. He may have wanted to come back, but leaving was his own decision.


	3. Bad Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder why people in the land of the dead are so afraid of the living?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote several versions of this chapter until I finally realized this is fanfiction and I don't have to go in chronological order.

"You got a gig tonight, Héctor?"

He looked up from his usual place in the plaza, where a few coins gleamed up from his guitar case. "Not tonight, Mamá," he said. "Why? Did you hear of someone who needs a fill-in?"

Alita shook her head, the light from the late afternoon glinting on her sunburst flowers. "You've been dead nearly six months, Héctor. You can't keep busking all day and playing with a different band every night."

"Not _every_ night," he said. "I have a couple of groups who know to look for me when they need an extra guitarist. I like to keep my options open until I find the right guys—or gals," he added. His mother's opinions on the scarcity of female mariachis had sailed across her kitchen table many times. "Until then, I'm building a reputation."

His fingers found the frets of his guitar again. "Join a band and they've got their own habits. And then this one leaves because his living-time bandmates died and they want to do a reunion; that guy leaves because his grandchildren are finally here and he wants to spend more time with them. I'd rather fill in for this guitarist here and that fiddler there. I don't want to have to fight like I did with Ernesto."

"That friend of yours?" Alita sat down next to her son. "From what you tell me, you did most of the songwriting. That's why I think you should start your own band. Then you could set the habits."

Héctor's shoulders dropped. "I don't know." His mouth tightened. "I wonder how he's doing. He really didn't want me to leave."

Alita looked out across the plaza. "I know he didn't put your picture up last November."

"It's for Imelda to put my picture up," he said, "but I guess he's still angry that I left. I'll think about it, Mamá," he said. "I love that you think I could start my own band, but really I'm just not that special. Ernesto was our people person. He did all the—"

There was a startled scream from the far edge of the plaza. Héctor got to his feet, reaching out a hand to Alita. Ahead of them, the crowd was parting around a man in a wide-brimmed hat like oil running from a drop of water. The man stumbled and fell, too heavily, to one knee.

"He's sick," said Héctor. "Wait, can we get sick? Is he being forgotten?"

Alita put a hand to her face. "No," she said. "Almost the opposite."

There was a gusty breeze and the hat blew off the man's salt-and-pepper head. Héctor joined the collective gasp at the sight of skin and a nose. "What... But he's—"

Alita kept a grip like iron on Héctor's fingerbones. "Don't go near him!" she said.

"Why not? He needs help!"

"If that poor man is here, he's probably cursed," she said firmly. "Oh dear. It's almost sunset."

"He—sunset—what?"

Héctor watched as the last light of the sun set behind the far towers, and shadows grew between the bones of the stranger's face.

"The living don't belong here, Héctor," Alita said quietly. " They can't find their way unless something in them is already dead. Sometimes it's hope. Sometimes it's luck. If you aren't careful, you can catch a curse."

"So..." Héctor said, "he's here because he ran out of luck?" Héctor had always had a funny feeling that it would take more than a chorizo to finish a fella off.

The sun was going down over the hills. The people in the plaza kept backing toward the walls. One woman in a tight-fitting hat almost put a heel down on Héctor’s guitar before he snatched out of harm’s way and slung it over his back by its strap. The living man turned and looked over his shoulder.

Héctor liked to busk on the west side of the plaza, up on one of the wide stone steps, where people could see him and the acoustics were good. But that meant he got to look the stranger full in the face as he watched the sun set behind the towers.

There was a lip pulled down in dismay, pockmarked nose flared wide, full cheeks gone pale with fear, until there wasn't. The life seemed to hiss out of the man like a piece of pork on a stove. It should have been a relief to watch it all fade away like shadows, but Héctor felt sick to his rib-bones.

Héctor had gotten to the point where he didn't really think about being dead. But here was something important, something _vital_ pouring away, like dumping cold water out onto sand in front of people dying of heatstroke. No wonder everyone was so upset.

It was a normal face now, a normal skull, but something about it was still making his spine crawl. Something was still off. It was too smooth, like a hardboiled egg with the shell peeled off wet.

"Oooh," breathed the woman, a hand going to her mouth. "His face..." She started to point and then put her hand down. Instead, she touched the pink and gold waves that fringed her eye sockets.

Alita shook her head, one hand at her chest. "Nothing at all."

Héctor frowned. "What..."

"No markings," said Alita.

Héctor blinked. The stranger's new face was smooth and white as a grain of rice. Alita tapped the floral marks on her cheek bones. "He may belong here now, but he's still cursed."

"Is that why some people don't have..." Héctor shook his head, clicked his guitar into its case and walked out into the center of the plaza.

"Don't go over there, m'ijo!"

He looked over his shoulder, "It'll be all right, Mamá."

Héctor walked up to him. The man seemed shorter now, like an egg about to break.  


"Hey," he said.

The newly skeletal figure stared at its hands.

"It's not so bad here." He took a step closer. "I can show you around."

The new guy didn't move. Héctor carefully sat down next to him.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The new guy shook his head.

Héctor let the silence settle. Sometimes the rests were as important as the notes. He could practically feel Alita and a few braver or curious souls watching from the back of the plaza.

When it was time for sound again, "They've got people here who can find your family," said Héctor. "There must be someone down here you'd be glad to see."

The new guy was quiet for a long time.

"My ...an old lady in my town. I think she might be a witch."

"Oh," said Héctor, turning toward the man. "They used to say that about a girl in my hometown. Had a tongue sharper than a razor."

"Yeah? What you do about it?"

"I married her."

The new guy made a little snorting sound. Then again. Then a full laugh.

There was a murmur from what was left of the crowd.

"Bruja or no bruja, you do something to that woman?" asked Héctor.

The man winced. The blank white face didn't seem quite as off-putting now that there was an expression on it. "Well ...maybe," he said. "I didn't think it was that bad but—"

"—curses don't know the difference?"

"Well maybe we find her. She's got to show up here sooner or later, right?"

The new guy shook his head. "It's those old broads who live forever."

"But maybe you can say you're sorry." Héctor frowned. "You _are_ sorry, aren't you?"

"Well I am _now_. But what difference would it make?"

"I don't know..." Héctor couldn't help rubbing the purple markings on his own forehead. "Maybe you'll feel better? I know I'd give anything to be able to tell someone I'm sorry."

"What, now that I'm dead?"

"Yes," said Héctor, "but life goes on." He stood up, holding out a hand.

The new guy eyed the fingerbones, then held up his own hand and looked at it. He breathed in and out, picked up his hat, and took Héctor's hand.

"You said there are people who can help me find my family?" he asked.

Héctor nodded toward the edge of the plaza. "I hadn't seen my mamá since I was so little that I never knew what she looked like. But they still found her for me." Héctor gave Alita a nod as he steered the new guy out of the plaza. The new guy was plodding along after him.

"I'm going to learn about curses," he said. "I'm going to find out what I did wrong." He put his hat on his head. Maybe people wouldn't notice his colorless face. Or maybe he could just have an artist make him up every day, like a man going for a shave.

The new guy nodded again. "Life goes on."

"Especially down here," added Héctor.

On the walk, Héctor watched the faces around him. Sure enough, every so often there was a face without colors or markings. He'd never thought about why before.

When they came to the office of new arrivals, the clerk's spectacles dropped off his face. After ushering the new man off to a colleague, he took Héctor by the elbow. "You walked all the way here? With him?" he said in a whispered hiss. "Usually we have to send officers to bring in a cursed person. Didn't he try to run off?"

Héctor shrugged. "It was nothing special," he said. 

That evening, he went to a print shop and had some posters made.  
.  
.  
MARIACHI BAND. MUSICIANS WANTED. CLASSIC STYLE. SEE HÉCTOR RIVERA, PLAZA DEL SOL.  
.  
.

_I ran out of luck once under a streetlight,_  
_I never thought I could wait for so long,_  
_But life goes on._  
_Life goes on._  
_And if walking alone won't bring me where you are,_  
_I'll put one foot in front of the other.  
_Life goes on.__

 

"Life Goes On," by Héctor Rivera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter regretting that I'd already killed off Héctor's mother and then I realized I don't have to write them in order because it's fanfiction. So we're doing a backstep!
> 
> I figured that Héctor's mother picked out his name, possibly because it was Greek, perhaps because her own name was Greek, and "Alita" is short for "Alejandra." I haven't read all of the Coco novelization, so let me know if any of the extended content gave her name.


	4. Barefoot Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem with being dead is that the land of the living keeps moving without you.

Faces were funny things. You could play a dozen gigs with a guy and then not recognize him if you saw him out of his stage clothes. When Mateo climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment not far from the Plaza del Sol, Héctor knew him by his trumpet long before connecting the high browbones with their red-orange wave markings to the man he'd met in Sonora.

"I'm here for the audition?" he said.

Héctor was already clapping him on the shoulder and beckoning him inside. "Welcome to the afterlife, Mateo!" he said with a laugh. Héctor pointed a cautioning finger at Mateo. "No pretending you don't remember me," he joked. It had been a twinge, like an ache in a broken bone on a rainy day. One trip to the office of new arrivals and, sure enough, someone who knew him had left the living world.

"After the way we closed down that night concert in Hermosillo?" Mateo set his trumpet case on the floor. "That performance changed my life!" he said. "Nice place you got," he added.

"Small terrace, but I like it," he answered. "I wanted something a little nice for when my wife gets here."

"Oh no," said Mateo. "Is she sick?"

"Oh!" Héctor blinked. "Not that I know of." He recovered. "Anyway, this is Gazpar," he motioned to the man waiting at the kitchen table, who waved. "The rest of the Sol Plaza Boys won't be by until later." He picked up a the guitar that lay tuned and ready on the kitchen table and strummed out the key. "I need to make sure you remember how to play that thing before introducing you to the band."

Mateo picked up his trumpet and frowned, staring at the pearl-white fingertips. "Maybe you can tell me..."

"What?"

"Why it feels the same?" he nodded at his hands. "I'm dead. I can see I'm dead. But I still feel like I got skin."

Héctor grew quiet. "Didn't your family talk to you about this?"

Mateo laughed. "I've only been dead four days. My wife had other things on her mind—"

Héctor looked away.

"—and my brother won't shut up about the money I owe him."

"Dead and still got bills to pay?"

"Ain't it the truth." Mateo put his fingers to the trumpet and a solo soared out. People in the street stopped outside the open window to listen. Brassy and full of flourishes, the kind of song that could make complete strangers get up and dance together in step. A few passers-by clapped as Mateo finished.

Héctor was still as a stone. Gazpar covered his chin with one hand.

Mateo's smile sank a little. "What's wrong?" he asked. "It sounded okay in my head, but I'm used to having actual ears." He took of his hat and gave the side of his head a pat.

"Oh! No," said Héctor, holding out one palm. "It's only ...what song was that?"

"Well, I figured you'd be playing in the classic style, like when you performed with Ernesto de la Cruz," said Mateo. "That was a de la Cruz song. His biggest hit. 'Remember Me.'"

Héctor’s laugh didn't make it all the way out of his mouth. "That's not how you play 'Remember Me,'" he said. "'Remember Me' is simple, quiet, one-on-one."

"Are we talking about the same song?" asked Mateo. "'Remember Me' is the grand farewell. Brings down the house every time."

Héctor shook his head. "Ernesto always wanted to get too fancy. I bet he dressed it up as some big gal-wooing love song too."

"Didn't he write it that way from the start?"

"Did he what now?" Héctor felt like he'd been punched. "No. No, I wrote 'Remember Me.' For my daughter."

Mateo seemed to remember he was auditioning for a job. "Well, when I met the two of you on tour, neither of you talked about who wrote what. Then a couple years later he says something to me like you two wrote it together, but yeah, now it's just his name on the records."

Records. Like phonograph cylinders but better quality. In his day, "music sales" had meant sheet music for people to play themselves. Ernesto had looked into getting them a deal on Héctor's compositions, but what had that contract said..?

Héctor clicked his tongue. "A recording company, right?" he said. He'd heard of those. Newly dead musicians complaining about contracts. "Music as a business. I bet they made him say he wrote the songs by himself so that they'd sell more copies."

"I have heard of that happening," allowed Mateo.

"Well," said Héctor. "'Nesto better take his vitamins, because he and I are having a long talk when he gets down here."

Mateo smiled, but still seemed a little nervous.

"I guess you couldn't have auditioned using the song the way I wrote it," Héctor admitted. "I don't know of many lullabies that call for the trumpet."

"That's true. Neither of my kids found my music very restful. So..." Mateo's fingers flickered across the keys of his trumpet. "This band I'm auditioning for. You guys like simple?"

Héctor gave a sideways shrug. "I change it up. You can't do the whole set in any one way; people get bored," he said. "But the simpler a song is, the more perfect it has to be. Lets you get more expressive." Ernesto had always wanted to make things so complicated. I want to play the song the way I wrote it. I want to go home because I miss my wife and daughter. Simple.

"Simple. Expressive," Mateo counted on his fingers. "Okay if it's sad?" He tilted his head to the side, then smiled. For real this time. "There's something else I want to play for you."

Héctor frowned. "All right."

"It's a style that's getting really big north of the border," he added.

Héctor leaned forward, hands on his knees.

This time, the sound was lower and darker, earth instead of brass, like the ground just after dark, when it's still hot enough to scorch bare feet. No one in the street started dancing or clapping. Instead they just stopped.

"What was that?" asked Héctor. Quietly, reverently.

Mateo leaned his trumpet against his leg. "They call it the Blues."

"The Blues," repeated Héctor.

"Now I'm not saying we play a whole set," said Mateo. "People ask for a classic mariachi band, that's what we give them, but maybe one or two songs a night..."

Héctor was already nodding. "Tell me more."

.  
.  
.  
Mateo performed with Héctor’s Sol Plaza Boys for eighteen months, and Héctor tried his hand at the Blues. Though he'd never say it held a candle to his home style, he found something appealing in the call and response, like the people in the audience trying not to be so very much like strangers. Mateo moved on to a blues band. Over the years, he found there was no point correcting people when they called de la Cruz a great songwriter. But when Mateo and his guys needed a new song, something original, they knew who to come to.

.

.

.

_Lost my last shoe the other day,_  
_Wore it out on these stones._  
_Dead and still got bills to pay,  
_Nothing left but my bones.__

_____ _

___"Barefoot Blues," by Héctor Rivera and the Sol Plaza Boys_ _ _


	5. Reputation

It was big this time. It hurt. He nearly stumbled off the stage where Gazpar and Augustin were setting up. A wisp of gold, so thin it might have been imagined, slipped away from his right shoulder. Augustin helped Héctor into a chair. "I've seen this before," he muttered. "Somebody died. Real sudden-like. Somebody who remembered you real hard."

Héctor sat up. He breathed in and out. He'd been waiting for this. He'd planned out what to say. But it was too early, _years_ too early. Coco would only be a young woman, too young to be without her mother. Unless—

Héctor swallowed hard.

The biggest hug. The best he could do.

There was a sound of claws scratching at the door.  
.  
.  
.

 

Hector walked into the Office of New Arrivals doubled over with one of the three blue triplet alebrijes dragging the sleeve of his rehearsal shirt, and the other two on his pant legs.

"I'm sorry, sir," he could hear Counselor Gilberto through the thin wood paneling. "We've had a little trouble identifying your next of kin. You can ask for someone, of course—"

"Do you _know_ who I am?" came a voice.

Héctor straightened, flipping the arm-chewing alebrije into the air as he practically exhaled the dust off the windowpanes.

He shooed away the alebrijes and knocked on the door. One of the newer employees started to open her mouth, but Gilberto poked his head out and beckoned Héctor inside. One of the alebrijes ran straight to the new arrival and jumped in his lap, rubbing its shiny turquoise-scaled head against his arm.

"Those—" the man in Gilberto's counseling chair picked the alebrije up to eye level. "Those are the three little dogs that led me here."

"Yes," said Gilberto, sneezing heavily. He adjusted his glasses on his curse-clear face as Héctor gaped at the new arrival. "Spirit guides can _seem_ like regular animals when they visit the land of the living. They can even trigger my allergies. And, as you can see, they sometimes go and fetch the person you remembered the most."

Héctor gave a little wave. "It's going to be all right, 'Nesto."

The man turned his broad shoulders. "Only my friends get to call me—" His perfectly square jaw fell open and his face managed to go a shade paler as he cringed back in his chair. "No," he muttered under his breath. "No, it can' t be... _Héctor?_ "

"This is normal," Gilberto leaned to the side and murmured in Héctor's ear—or would have if he'd been taller. Or if they'd had ears. "Some people don't accept that they're dead until they see a loved one."

Héctor took the seat opposite. "It's really me, Ernesto." He raised a finger to wagging height. "And I think we both know I've got a score to settle with you."

Ernesto gasped. "Please, Héctor, I—"

"You _didn't tell my wife I was dead?_ " Héctor chided. "Imelda's still there in Santa Cecilia, never putting up my photo on Dia de Los Muertos because she still hopes I'm going to come home one day..."

Gilberto looked sideways at Héctor, then pointed his eyes back at his clipboard.

"...I know it must have been hard," Héctor put one hand on Ernesto's, "watching your best friend die of food poisoning—"

Ernesto's mouth fell open as he looked off to the side.

"—but you had a duty, hermano. You should have told my family what happened to me."

Ernesto looked left, then right. "So you don't ...blame me?"

"For what? Me dying?" Héctor sat back in his chair. "If there's anyone to blame it was that chorizo guy who couldn't cook his meat properly. Must've learned food prep at stupid school," he stood up. "Look, Gilberto here can find any relatives you want for you," he said, "but my best friend isn't staying anywhere but at my place until he gets on his feet." He gave a big, sincere smile, "The guys in my band are going to be thrilled to meet you. If you want, you can perform with us. I have so many new songs I want to run by you."

" _New_ songs?" Ernesto sat forward. 

"I wasn't going to give up songwriting just because I was a little thing like dead," said Héctor. "My Sol Plaza Boys perform at neighborhood events, weddings, arrival parties, anniversaries. Nothing like the big venues you're used to, but there are like twenty families who hire us for _everything_. We're really getting to know our customers. Oh! Do you remember Mateo from Sonora?"

"So you're a hometown musician," Ernesto said, muttering to himself. "You had to die to get your dream."

"I wouldn't say that," Héctor answered. Coco would be twenty-two now. Maybe she was married. Maybe there was a grandson named Héctor.

"I suppose I..." Ernesto took a deep breath. Then he looked up, from Gilberto to Héctor and back. "So, none of what we learned in Sunday school is real? There's no divine truth or judgement? No hell?"

"That is actually an interesting question," chirped Gilberto. "We don't know any more about that than we did in the land of the living. The Christian afterlife _might_ be what awaits us after the final death. I'm a believer myself," he gestured to a simple cross decoration on the wall behind him. 

"Final—what?"

Héctor put a hand on Gilberto's arm. "This place runs on memories," he said. "The more people remember you in the living world, the better you do down here."

"Like with money?"

"In a way," said Gilberto. "You can trade your Dia de Muertos offerings if you want to but most people don't get enough to make much difference." 

"And I get by fine without any," added Héctor. "But memories are what keep our bones together. The minute _you_ died, amigo, I keeled over right in the middle of rehearsal." He gave a little laugh, feeling relief wash over him like a cool rain.

"What you really need," Gilberto cut in, "is for people in the living world to remember you."

"So my ...reputation is keeping me alive?" Ernesto looked down at his bone hands and cocked that movie-star grin. "So to speak?"

"Exactly!" said Gilberto.

Ernesto looked at Héctor appraisingly. Héctor nodded in support. "Ask him whatever you want, 'Nesto. Whatever will make you feel better to know."

Ernesto put a hand to his chin. "Is there any way to contact the living? Tell someone a..." he looked at Héctor "...information?"

Gilberto shook his head. "Communication is mostly one-way. You can visit your relatives on Dia de los Muertos—"

"If someone puts your photo on their ofrenda," Héctor cut in.

"—as long as your photo's on at least one ofrenda," Gilberto nodded, "but the people we visit can't see or hear us. It's more of a ...spiritual presence."

"So if I had a secret, and someone in this world found out, it wouldn't affect my reputation among the living?" asked Ernesto.

"So show business wasn't all guitars and glamour like we thought when we were boys?" Héctor elbowed him in the ribs. "Everyone has to get their hands dirty sometimes."

Ernesto exhaled shakily.

"Hm..." Gilberto cupped his chin. "I suppose it _could_ be possible to get a message back to the land of the living if you ran into a living person who's ended up down here before their true time," he tapped his pen against the clipboard, " _and_ if that person manages to get back before the sun changes. But most cursed people just stay cursed," he tapped his pen against his own unmarked cheekbone, "as I should know!"

"Oh, did you ever run into the bruja?" asked Héctor.

Gilberto sighed heavily, " _Still_ alive. Can you believe it?"

"So if I have a secret," said Ernesto, "I should still keep it to myself," he nodded.

Héctor got quiet. "Gilberto?" he asked. "Can you give us a minute?"

Gilberto put a hand on Héctor's shoulder and left, closing the door carefully behind him. The three Chihuahua-sized alebrijes followed him, and he stifled a sneeze.

"'Nesto, moment of truth time." Héctor turned the chair around and faced Ernesto over the back. "What I'm going to say stays in this room forever, you understand? We're going to square it between us, and then I am going to forget it ever happened."

"I see." Ernesto took a deep breath. "If that's what you want."

Héctor breathed out. "At first, I didn't know it was you."

Ernesto frowned. "Who else could it have been?"

"I was worried it was Imelda. Or even Coco." Héctor's hand covered his mouth as he pressed his eyes shut.

When he opened them, Ernesto's face was completely blank.

"There are only a couple of people who remember me big time," he went on. "When I saw it was you here and not my girl—" 

Ernesto leaned forward.

"I'm _not_ glad you're dead, Ernesto. But I feel like the world's worst friend." Tears started in his eyes.

Ernesto put a hand on his shoulder.

"Can you forgive me, 'Nesto?" asked Héctor. "Please?"

"My friend," he said, eying Gilberto's crucifix on the wall beside the door. "There is nothing to forgive."  
.  
.  
.

"The guys in my band will be thrilled to meet you," said Héctor. "Gazpar is a real fan. But are you sure you don't want Gilberto to look for your ancestors? His real talent is curses, but he's good at finding people."

"Ah you know what I say about life as an artist, Héctor," said Ernesto.

"'The world is our family,'" they finished at the same time. Héctor chuckled.

"At least now you can tell my guys that I wrote 'Remember Me,'" said Héctor.

" _Tell_ them?" asked Ernesto. "Didn't you tell them you wrote all our songs?"

"Sure, but nobody believes me. Some of them don't even believe I know you."

Ernesto touched his chin.

Héctor Rivera and Ernesto de la Cruz walked out of the Office of New Arrivals shoulder to shoulder. Waiting outside was a huge crowd. Some were holding signs reading "¡BIENVENIDO ERNESTO!" one had a picture of a giant bell being broken in half, big letter Xs over a tongue sticking out.

Héctor gave a laugh and elbowed Ernesto in the ribs. "I guess word got out."

"Señor de la Cruz, my family operates the best hotel this side of the city, and I would be honored to have you stay with us."

"Señor de la Cruz, I manage the Grand Waterfall theater. Should you wish to perform, I will open our schedule for you."

"Señor de la Cruz—"

"Señor de la Cruz—!"

Héctor stepped back to let 'Nesto bask in attention from his beloved fans, shaking his head. Same old Nesto. The crowd closed in around him and Héctor remembered the glowing ache in his rib cage. He found a bench to sit on while he waited for Ernesto to finish gladhanding his adoring public so they could head over to his place.

When the crowd cleared, Ernesto was gone.

.  
.  
.

Ernesto never publicly admitted that Héctor had written his songs.

Soon, rumors came up like smells from a garbage heap about some idiot who'd choked to death trying to fit a whole chorizo in his mouth at once. Must've learned to eat at stupid school. And there was another rumor that that guy was Héctor.

Customers didn't want to hire a band for an arrival party if the guests would spend all their time laughing at the lead guitarist when they should have been welcoming the guest of honor. Héctor sang and played as well as ever, but no one could hear him over "chorizo."

Eventually, he left the Sol Plaza Boys, thinking at least the band he built could keep going without him while he waited for the rumors to die. But Gazpar said the music wasn't the same without him and Augustin got tired of only repeating his favorites and quit.

Héctor bided his time, waiting for people to get tired of their story. He could start another band. He could always write more songs.

.  
.  
.

_Chorizo spicy, what a treat,  
I cannot wait my turn to eat,  
In one big gulp I'll soon be fed,  
But what is this? I choke! I'm dead!_

-unnamed graffiti, unknown authorship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess the "one chapter a month" thing isn't working out. Here's a big fat friend-murdering jerk to tide you all over.


End file.
